


a life to live

by champagneleftie



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Marriage Proposal, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 20:03:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13554585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/champagneleftie/pseuds/champagneleftie
Summary: “We'll have to get married before we apply for the visas,” Isak says behind him.The spoon clatters to the ground, sauce splashing on the floor, the cabinets, Even's jeans.“Wh-what?”Or, a non-proposal proposal fic.





	a life to live

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vesperthine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesperthine/gifts).



> So, I've been thinking about writing an anti-proposals proposal fic for a while (because I'm nothing if not a romantic) and then there was talk of Evak wedding hcs, and this happened.
> 
> To vesperthine, since she inspired it. 
> 
> This hasn't been betaed, or even read through. You've been warned.

Somewhere in the apartment, a phone is buzzing.

It’s barely audible over the sound of onions sautéing and their noisy kitchen fan, and Even wonders how long it’s been ringing to reach this level of insistence.

Isak, staring at his laptop with his brow furrowed in equal parts concentration and annoyance, doesn’t seem to have noticed.

”Isak?”

The only response he gets is vague humming, some furious typing and a deep sigh. It’s been a long day at work for him – a long  _ month _ , or maybe more than a month, Even can’t remember anymore when Isak started working on this project that only seems to make his mood worsen and his stress levels skyrocket with each day that passes – and if the last few weeks are anything to go by it won’t be over until well after Even goes to bed.

”Your phone?”

“Huh?” Isak finally looks up, confusion written all over his face. “What about my phone?”

“It's ringing?”

“No?” Isak frowns again, and pulls a silent phone out of his pocket. “It's not?” He places it face down on the table and returns immediately to his computer. “Maybe it's yours.”

It's not Even's, and he knows this - his phone is always on silent, to Isak and his friends’ chagrin. Isak, he reminds him, knows this too. 

There's a moment of silence as they both ponder the mysterious buzzing, and then - Isak's chair almost topples over as he bursts out of it, rushing out of the kitchen. 

“Work phone!” he calls out, already in the other room, and then Even hears him pick up, a slightly breathless “Hello?”

A beat, and then, Isak's carefully measured English:

“Yes, that's - I'm Isak Valtersen.” 

Even hears him pull the bedroom door close with a click, and returns his attention to the stove. Adds the minced meat to the onions, separates it with a wooden fork. Pours the steaming water from the kettle into the pot, twists the spaghetti to keep it from clumping, just like Jamie Oliver taught him. 

He's just moved on to considering what spices to add to the simmering sauce when Isak returns to the kitchen - some soy sauce, maybe, since they seem to be out of red wine, oregano, thyme - cayenne? Maybe? Honey? Or sugar? 

Isak flops down on his chair again, placing his work phone gingerly on the table next to his personal phone. But instead of returning straight to abusing his laptop keyboard, he just sits there, staring into space. His face is smooth, expressionless, like it can't settle on what emotion to display - apart from confused. 

It's so out of character for his normally so confident cocky Isak that Even is almost worried. 

“Isak?” he tries, concern growing in his chest. What if something’s happened? With Marianne? Jonas? Eskild? “Babe?”

Isak runs a hand through his hair, in the way that he started doing instead of adjusting his snapback when he stopped wearing them sometime after high school. 

“I… That was… I got it.” 

“You what?” The concern in his chest is quickly being exchanged for excitement, as everything starts falling into place: the English, Isak's shock, the work phone call… 

Finally Isak's face breaks into a huge grin, his cheeks stretching to their limits, the hints of smile lines that have started appearing around his eyes on full display - and Even loves those baby smile lines, sees them as proof that he, somehow, manages to make Isak happy. 

“I got the fellowship. We're going to America.” 

The oregano jar clatters against the counter as Even drops rather than puts it down. He pulls Isak up from the chair, enveloping him in the biggest hug he can manage. 

He feels Isak put his arms around his shoulders and bury his nose in the hollow of Even's neck, and he can feel his smile against his skin as he almost whispers, 

“I can't believe I got it.” 

Somehow, Even finds a way to hug him even tighter. 

“I knew you would.” 

Isak pulls back a little and he looks so proud that Even just has to kiss him, just a peck first, and then another one, and then a third. He knows how much this means to Isak, how much effort he put into that application, long nights fretting over the formatting of his cv and the tone of his cover letter, countless versions sent to Noora for proofreading. Knows that, despite Isak's insisting that it didn't matter, that he knew this was a long shot and he was only applying for the sake of it - he really had his heart set on this. 

His eyes sparkle now, his grin bigger than Even's can ever remember seeing it. 

Their fourth kiss is hungry, greedy. Isak grabs at his neck, pulls him in and forces his mouth open with a thumb on his jaw and Even isn't hard pressed to respond, to let tongue slip into his mouth, meet it, taste the traces of coffee and the gum Isak chews to keep focus. Fuck he's missed this. Isak's been too busy, too tired, lately, hasn't had the time nor the energy for this in way too long. He lets Isak push him back towards the kitchen counter with his hips. It juts into his ass, but Isak pushes a thigh between his legs, rubbing the zipper against his hardening dick and he really can't force himself to care. Not when Isak puts his other hand on the counter beside him, surrounds him, crowds up at him like he wants to devour him and - 

“Ow!” Isak jumps back, shaking his hand in the air, and the entire front of Even's body suddenly feels very bare, his hands strangely empty. Isak eyes his hand like it's offended him somehow. “What the fuck?!”

Yes, what the fuck? Even's mind reiterates. One moment they're making out against the counter, and in the next - what?! He looks around himself, trying to identify the reason for this extremely untimely interruption - and, oh right. 

At his side, just beside where Isak had put his hand, is the sputtering pasta sauce, spitting tomato sauce all over the stove, the wall and the counter, and, apparently, Isak's hand. The pasta water is storming, and from the way the spaghetti is rising to the surface he suspects it might already be overcooked. 

Fuck. 

Dinner. Fuck. That's what he was doing. 

He grabs the lid to the pot and pours the water out under a string of expletives, while Isak disappears to the bathroom to run his hand under some cold water. 

There goes that mood. Fuck. Well, they do both have vacations in June, he supposes they'll get to have sex then. Hopefully. 

When Isak returns he is pushing the meat around with the wooden fork again, trying to get all of it to unstick from the bottom of the pan and mix with the spices. He hears him pull up his chair to the table again and log on to his computer. His typing is markedly less infuriated now. Instead, it's slow, hesitant, like he's distracted. One word at the time. 

He gets a spoon from the drawer and loads a bit of sauce on it, to taste the seasoning. Blows on it to make sure it's not too hot before bringing it up to his mouth. 

“We'll have to get married before we apply for the visas,” Isak says behind him. 

The spoon clatters to the ground, sauce splashing on the floor, the cabinets, Even's jeans. 

“Wh-what?”

The thing is - they've talked about it. Marriage. And Isak's been very clear that he just doesn't see the point of it. They probably won't be having any children, by the looks of it, even if they wanted them - won't be approved for adoption since Even is bipolar, and surrogacy is illegal, so that's not an option either - and if they don't have children, then what's the point? They have all their paperwork in order, wills and so on, so legally they're as good as married. And neither of them is religious, quite the opposite, especially in Isak's case. 

So, really, there's no meaning in it. 

Except. 

Even can't deny that he's thought about it. The two of them, dressed up, surrounded by their friends and families. Saying heartfelt vows, maybe their own words, maybe the same words that their parents, grandparents, friends have all said at their weddings. The same promises, the same commitments. 

And it's not that he doesn't know that Isak is committed to him. There's nothing that he believes harder than that. They're it, they always have been, and no ceremony, no piece of paper, is going to change that. 

But… Still. He can't deny that the idea of calling Isak his husband, rather than his partner, sends thrills down his spine. There's something so undeniable about it, so definitive. 

(He does it, sometimes. At conferences, during small talk with people he's pretty sure he'll never meet again. It feels a little silly, and he's never told Isak. Doesn't want him to feel any pressure. Never.) 

Isak looks up from his laptop at the sound of the spoon hitting the floor. 

“We have to get married.” The way he says it makes it sound so obvious, like it's just the next logical step. 

“Why?” Has - has the shock of getting this job really affected Isak that much? Maybe he's not feeling well? Could he be delirious? But he doesn't seem like it, looks and sounds just like his usual well-reasoned, methodical Isak. 

His usual well-reasoned, methodical Isak who must hear the worry in his voice, because he rolls his eyes at him from behind the screen, as Even starts to wipe up the mess. 

“Even…” he says, in the way that he sometimes does when he thinks Even should just get his logical leaps without explanation, and normally Even would be annoyed, because this is something they've talked about - that their minds and their thought processes are completely different, sometimes, and that they have to both be mindful of that and try to communicate  _ how _ their thinking as much as  _ what _ they're thinking - but at the moment he's just incredibly confused. 

“We can't not be married if we're going to live in the states,” Isak continues, finally, apparently, realizing that Even is not following. “Do you know how much more complicated that would make everything? Your visa, your health insurance… I'm going to get health insurance through work, and if we're married you can be included in that. Otherwise you'd have to get your own, and that would just be incredibly expensive. And did you know, that if one of us was in the hospital they might not let the other one visit if we're not married?” 

It's a lot to take in, a lot that Even hasn't even thought to consider in the excitement over Isak applying for a job abroad. A lot that he'd just assumed would work itself out, somehow. 

“But if we're married, I'd be included in your health insurance?” he asks, latching on to the one thing that kind of rings a bell. 

Isak nods. 

“I specifically asked about that.” His tongue darts out, and Even is as mesmerized by it as he was the first time he noticed that particular tick. “I mean, we have to have health insurance, I wouldn't take it if I didn't know you could come with me and that you'd be okay if something happened.” 

He says it so casually, like it really is a given, and inside his chest Even feels his heart swell. Because of course he does. Because this is Isak, and since the first time he called Sonja to make sure Even would be okay at his place and organized his flatmates into keeping an eye on him, he's always put Even first. Like Even tries to put him first. Tries to cook him dinner when he's stressed even if it's technically been Isak's turn for, like, a week; holds him when he has trouble sleeping again, makes sure he has enough contact with his mother to keep him from feeling too guilty about it but not so much that it becomes another frustration. 

But the extent of Isak's love for him still overwhelms him sometimes. 

So for the second time of the night he pulls Isak up from his chair, and this time it's Even who's crowding Isak up against the table, his face between his hands, the kisses deep and desperate already from the start. He feels Isak smile into them, chase them, and he can't help but smile back. It makes the kisses kind of aborted, but he's just too happy not to. 

Isak scoots up on the table - it creaks precariously but who cares, they're moving abroad anyway - and spreads his legs, making room for Even between them. His hand finds its way up under Even's shirt, spreads out at the small of his back, and he pulls him even further in, locking him between his thighs. 

Even can feel the friction of his fly increasing against his stiffening dick, and when he presses his hips into Isak he can start to feel him chubbing up as well. One of his hands grabs at Isak's hair, his neck, the other travelling down between them, landing high on Isak's thigh. 

“Even,” Isak moans, the vibrations of his voice travelling between their mouths, and  _ fuck  _ yes, Even's missed this. He moans wordlessly in reply, letting his eyes fall shut, letting himself get lost in this, in the sensation of being close to Isak again, of being wanted by him again. 

“Even,” Isak moans again. “The food.” 

And oh, fuck, right. 

He breaks away from Isak and hastens to remove the sauce from the stove and turn it off. For a moment he wonders if maybe Isak actually wants to eat now, but Isak, thankfully, jumps off the table and gets up behind him, snaking his arms around Even's hips and presses up against Even's ass so that he can feel just how hard he is. 

“That can wait, right?“ Isak's voice is already low and rough against his neck, his teeth worrying Even's sensitive skin just where he likes it. 

Even swallows to try and find his voice, but in the end, it's pointless, so he just nods, and let's Isak spin him around and pull him down into another kiss. 

Despite the involuntary celibacy they've been practicing lately, they can still find their way from the kitchen to the bedroom without letting go if each other, each other's lips, each other's arms, waists, hips. Isak is fiddling with the button of Even's jeans before they've even exited the kitchen, and Even is working his way down the buttons of Isak's shirt. They only stop kissing for Even to pull his sweater and his shirt over his head in one swift motion, while Isak takes the opportunity to pull off his pants, his boxers. 

It's almost like their teenagers again, exploring each other, centimeter by centimeter. Or, rather, it's  _ not  _ like when they were teenagers, desperate and insatiable and with boundless amounts of energy. This is a rediscovery, a reminder - of the smoothness of Isak's stomach against his, the curve of his ass under his hand how their legs slot together, the weight of Isak half on top of him. The taste of him, the scent of him. Their dicks lining up along each other, the wonderful friction, and it takes so little to make Even desperate when it's been this long. 

Isak runs a hand down his chest, his stomach, a thumb along the V of his hip, and it sends sparks and shivers through Even's entire body, makes him press his hips towards Isak's, pull him even deeper into their kiss.

Isak straddles him, then, locks Even's thighs onto the mattress and starts kissing, licking, sucking down his chest. He rests on one of his nipples, worrying it with his teeth, and Even can feel warmth pooling low in his belly, radiating through him. 

“I missed you,” Isak mumbles against his ribcage, and Even’s chest clenches, because  _ fuck  _ if he hasn't missed Isak as well. It's not that they don't touch, and kiss - good morning kisses and good night kisses, curling up on the couch in front of the TV and falling asleep on each other's chests - but it's not the same, it's not  _ this,  _ and for a while he's tried to convince himself that it's fine, that he doesn't mind that much, but fuck it, he does. And Isak kisses down his happy trail and buries his nose in the curly hairs around Even's dick and breathes in, and Even knows that he has, too. 

And Isak swallows him down, and Even almost feels like he could come then and there. Isak's taking his time, obviously savoring the opportunity, licking long stripes up Even's dick, teasing him with the tip of his tongue just under the head, lapping at the leaking precum. And it's not that Even begrudges him it, god knows he'd probably do the same thing if the roles were reversed, but when he doesn't know exactly when they'll get to do this again this isn't how he wants to come. 

He fills his lungs with air and it's only then he realizes that he's been holding his breath. 

“Isak!” he almost gasps. “Isak, Isak.” 

Isak hums around him, and fuck, that is  _ not helping. _

“Isak, off!” 

Isak pops off and looks up at him. His eyes are glazed over, his lips red and glossy with spit and precum. 

“Huh? Don't you want to..?” He looks a little dejected, almost small, and Even’s heart clenches. Has it been so long that they've completely forgotten how to read each other? 

“Nononono that's not - I just don't want to come like this,” he hastens to reassure him, and Isak's face floods in relief. “I want you to fuck me.” 

Isak lights up at that, his face breaking into a huge grin. He scrambles back up bed, grabs Even by the hair at the nape of his neck and pulls him in for a deep kiss. 

“Fuck yeah,” he mumbles against Evens lips, and Even tastes himself on his tongue, chases it, can still feel the phantom of Isak's mouth on his dick. Can't keep his hands still, needs to touch Isak, everywhere, needs to remind himself of what his skin feels like under his hands. Runs them down his back, his sides, over his ass and thighs and Isak moans into his mouth. 

Sometimes it's like just being close to Isak - skin to skin - is enough.

This is not one of those times. 

Isak shifts his position, puts more of his weight on Even, and when he does he drags his thigh along Even's dick. The friction makes Even whimper, and he is suddenly reminded of how hard he is, how his dick is throbbing against his stomach. 

The lube is in his bedside drawer, and he's close enough that he can manage to get it out and push in into Isak's hand without even breaking the kiss. He feels Isak smile against him, feels more than hears him mumble an “Impressive”, and pictures him cocking a teasing eyebrow. But from this shifted position Even is in a perfect position to exact some revenge. Isak's dick lays straining along his hip, and with a hand on his ass he manages to lift his hip and create some friction for him. He feels Isak's breath hitch against his mouth, before he hurriedly breaks away and pops the bottle cap open. 

Finally. 

Isak squeezes out some lube over his fingers, and they really need to restock - Even makes a mental note to add it to his shopping list. 

“When was the last time we…?” Isak rubs his fingers together, warming the lube up a little. 

Even shrugs. He can't even remember how long it's been. 

“Okay, so when was the last time you..?” 

He has to think about that as well. 

“Last week maybe?”

Isak nods in response. 

“Okay then.” 

Even if they can't remember exactly how long it's been since they did this last, it must be burnt into their bodies, into their muscle memory. 

Despite Isak trying to warm up the lube first, Even still finches when he runs the first wet finger down his crack. His breath staggers in his chest, and he feels his entire body tense up in anticipation. Even if he has fingered himself during this drought, it's nothing like being fingered by Isak. Slow, careful, methodical. Circle after circle around his rim, and he can feel his muscles loosening at the pressure, can feel himself growing more and more desperate. He pushes back at Isak's finger, willing him to understand that he needs to just fuck him, already. 

And a that, Isak breaches him with the first finger. 

The sensation of having a finger in his ass is, after all this time, still both strange and familiar - the promise of what is to come as important as the fingering in itself. 

Isak fucks into him, slowly, going deeper with each thrust, pushing at his rim to open him up more, get him ready for finger number two. Even feels the sweat pool on his forehead, tries to focus on just this: Isak's body pressed against his own, Isak's finger moving inside him, on bearing down, relaxing. 

Isak adds a second finger, and then a third, and it's stopped being enough long ago. Even's dick is so hard that it's almost painful, and it feels like his skin has been hotwired, like just touching him would send electric shocks through his entire body. He needs Isak inside him, needs him to fill him up, to be as close to him as he can be. 

Isak doesn't seem to be faring much better, eyes trained on the three fingers fucking into Even, his other hand absentmindedly stroking Even's arm. His eyes are dark, cheeks flaming and hair on end.

He is so fucking beautiful. 

The thought strikes Even with such force that he moans around it. Isak is always beautiful - he's beautiful in front of his computer with his reading glasses slipping down his nose, he's beautiful in sweats on lazy Saturdays, beautiful when he comes home from the gym, red-faced and sweaty - but he's never as beautiful as when he is like this: turned on, just about balancing on the edge, staring at Even like he never wants to look at anything else in his life. 

At Even's moan, Isak snaps up, turning to look him in the eye. His eyelids are heavy and his smile a little dazed, like he is high on more than just Even. His hand on Even's arm stills, and he gives it a little squeeze. 

“Yeah?” he asks, and no, they definitely haven't forgotten how to read each other. All the words Isak doesn't say are crystal clear in Even's mind. 

“Yeah,” he smiles back. “Want to ride you.”

Isak's smile grows at that. There's always something nostalgic about it, every time they fuck like that, a first time reclaimed again and again over the years, as they moved through phase after phase in life. 

Seeing Isak, flushed and bright-eyed beneath him, always brings Even back to the best parts of falling in love with him. 

They're both holding their breaths as Even sinks himself down, slowly, thighs shaking from the effort. When he bottoms out, they both exhale. 

No matter how many times they do this, no matter how often or how seldom, it will never stop mattering, stop affecting them. He's sure of that. 

He wants to savor it. Grinds his hips, slowly, steadily. Isak's breathing is already heavy, his eyes fluttering as he struggles to keep them open. Even leans forward, trying to find the perfect angle, and Isak grabs him by the nape of his neck and pulls him in, pushing himself up on his elbow and their foreheads together. It's not the most comfortable position, but Even couldn't mind less. He can see the sweat glistening on Isak's temples, feel his hot breath on his face, smell him. For that, he'll bear any discomfort. 

It doesn't take long for Isak's hips to start jerking beneath him, and he lets Even go to collapse back on the pillows, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open, and Even has to amend his earlier thought -  _ this  _ is Isak at his most beautiful. He puts his own hand around his dick, quickly, efficiently now, and just as Isak's hips relax against the bed he feels his own balls tighten, a ball of molten lava deep in his stomach, and then he is covering Isak's chest in come, as the orgasm radiates through him, through every nerve in his body. 

Afterwards - when he has pulled off Isak and collapsed beside him, when Isak has, sacrificed his own post-orgasm bliss to go to the bathroom and get some toilet paper to clean up at least the worst of the come - they lie there, sweat drenched and endorphin high, just looking at each other. Isak lays on his stomach, and when Even tucks a lock behind his ear he can see the boy he fell for behind the smile lines and the suspiciously white hairs at his temples. 

“I can't believe we're moving to the USA,” he smiles. 

Isak smiles back. 

“I can't believe we're getting married.”


End file.
